A Matter of Life and Death

A close friend called me last week from an addiction rehabilitation center in California. He has been sober for 9 years but nearing the birth of his first child, fell off the wagon and kept falling. When he finally hit rock bottom, he landed in rehab. I was shocked. He and I had spoken often in the days leading up to his relapse and I would have never imagined this sudden undoing. But here we were.

We FaceTimed, and my friend was honest and vulnerable, which was quite the contrast for a guy who is ridiculously funny and quick-witted. The rawness of his words made me uncomfortable. I steered the conversation toward levity before realizing I had to resist the impulse. This was the real stuff: deep thoughts and feelings we mostly avoid in everyday conversation and replace with more superficial topics like what’s happening at work or recounting rounds of golf. My friend’s eyes welled up with tears as he described the deep internal suffering that had been hidden away. He no longer could ignore the trauma underneath the disease of addiction. Don’t run from this conversation, I thought. This is real. 

It was the most honest conversation I’ve had in a long time and a reminder that so much of thought is governed by damaging experiences that can barely be remembered. Our brains learn from past events, and too often the lessons learned are the wrong ones. 

A day later, it was revealed that Grayson Murray had died at the age of 30. The following day, Murray’s parents released a statement saying their son had committed suicide. The news understandably came as a shock, and was followed by an outpouring of tributes to Murray.

Peter Malnati played with Murray for two days at the Charles Schwab Challenge before Murray withdrew after 16 holes of the second round, saying he wasn’t feeling well. Malnati broke down in an interview on CBS discussing Murray’s death. “We get so worked up out here about a bad break here, or a good break there,” Malnati said, fighting tears and having to pause to collect his thoughts. “We’re so competitive. It’s so competitive out here. We all want to beat each other. Then something like this happens and you realize we’re all just humans.” We’re all just human.

Back in December, Harry Higgs didn’t look like the fun, cool competitor he has become known as. As he battled TPC Sawgrass in Jacksonville winter winds at Q school, he looked dour. A year and a half earlier, Higgs had solidified his place as the people’s champion at the Waste Management Open by holing a birdie putt and flashing the crowd an untanned underbelly at the raucous 16th hole, sending fans into a frenzy. But as he battled to keep his job in the final round of Q school and his ball didn’t cooperate, Higgs looked frustrated and exhausted. He made a par on the 72nd hole to earn guaranteed Korn Ferry Tour starts on the number, a shot away from losing all job security. 

Over the past two weeks, Higgs found his form and earned back-to-back playoff wins on the Korn Ferry Tour, locking up his PGA Tour card for next season. His golf game entertained last week at the Visit Knoxville Open, but in his champion’s acceptance speech, Higgs paid tribute to Murray:

‍“I kind of thought about this moment and how to remember Grayson…Everybody that’s here, one: Thank you so much for receiving me and congratulating me and cheering me on throughout. But this golf stuff and the result, it’s lovely, sure, but it's just not that meaningful. 

‍One thing that I kind of thought of last night, especially laying in bed, I would challenge everybody here – and I’m going to do this myself as well – each day, say something nice to someone you love. And also, make it a point to say something nice to somebody you don’t even know. 

‍The world is a very difficult place. The world is difficult and only getting more difficult. I’ve been blessed with great parents and a great support system and I haven’t had – other than some frustration at times – any battles mentally. But Lord knows how many people do. Everybody here could be a difference — the difference. Brighten up somebody’s day.”

The speech was an important reminder of what matters. Performing at the highest level of golf, or anything, requires handling significant pressure. Some of that pressure is external, but most of it is internal. The life of professional athletes can look glamorous, but in no way are they immune to the anxiety and loneliness that burdens so many. Burnout, exhaustion and depression can be very real setbacks, if not ends, in the pursuit of dreams. 

Doubt and disappointment are pervasive in the world of high athletic performance, and much of the day-to-day battle toward achievement is developing strategies to overcome these thoughts and emotions. We have seen athletes step away from the weight of athletic pressures in recent years. Tennis star Naomi Osaka withdrew from the 2021 French Open at the height of her powers and admitted she had been suffering from bouts of depression for years. In a Time magazine piece headlined, “It’s O.K. to not be O.K,” Osaka wrote, “It has become apparent to me that literally everyone either suffers from issues related to their mental health or knows someone who does…Athletes are humans.”

Record-shattering gymnast Simone Biles stepped away from competition for two years for a mental health break and has since become a mental health advocate. And 23-time Olympic gold medalist Michael Phelps said much of his career was beset by depression and suicidal thoughts. Matthew Wolff and Bubba Watson took leaves from professional golf for mental health reasons. Murray was open about his years-long battle with depression, anxiety and alcoholism. Mental struggles can be as injurious as physical pain, perhaps more so, and sometimes athletic success or failure has little to do with it.

We don’t know the specifics of what led to Murray’s suicide, but we know he fought a long battle to regain control of his mental health and sobriety. He won in January, at the Sony Open, and he appeared to have his life in order. But too often, substance abuse and the disease of addiction are temporary reliefs for deeper suffering. My good friend in rehab never dealt with the underlying trauma that led to his addiction, and although he remained sober for years, he was a ticking time bomb. In hindsight, I recognize a few subtle things he said that could have tipped me off to the impending relapse but I wasn’t tuned in enough. It’s a reminder to really listen to those we love – they may be trying to tell us something.

My father was an alcoholic, and the disease eventually killed him. He had a hard childhood, which is to say he didn’t have much of a childhood at all. He began drinking at a young age and soldiered on, out of necessity. Despite being a kind, empathetic and outgoing man, loneliness followed him all of his life, and alcohol made his underlying problems worse. My dad rarely talked about his childhood, refused help for his disease, and only admitted at the very end of his life that he was an alcoholic. But it was too late. He died at 51.

Having lived through a pandemic, most of us know feelings of loneliness and anxiety. Modern American culture makes it much easier to persist under the suffocating weight of these feelings than to seek help. Murray reminds us to check in with ourselves and those around us, and to be more empathetic and understanding. If we can remember this more often, greater purpose can emerge from tragedy. 

As Higgs says, we can be the difference. 

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